


over & through

by Theese



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, but messing around with this idea has been fun, i will have so many regrets about writing this, so i'll just pants it and go, so very many, which isn't very smart but it works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theese/pseuds/Theese
Summary: The 1960's hit the Republic of Petrova like a storm, and the boom in population became a part of it. Languages roll around the streets, shops sell items from several counties and religions, and the apartment blocks in the working class' area, the Industrial District, are being filled quicker than they have in years.This, in its own, speaks about the lives of a few, which compare to the lives of many during this period.





	1. Chapter 1

The tarp on the truck that Filips had been shoved into bumped unceremoniously. He was, of course, tired and drained. The grapes he had been given by the sisters at the church had almost run low, and his overalls were still stained with the blood of the butcher he assisted the morning he’d been forced to leave.

“We left quick,” Modest mentioned beside him, his own clothes stained with mud and sweat from fieldwork. “We won't starve, of course. They cooked us good bread, and they gave us good water.”

“That's running out,” Filips added before huffing and turning over. “We don't speak the language of where we are going. We come from Spain, we speak Spanish. They come from the North, they speak Russian.”

“We will learn, in time,” Modest said, laughing as Filips tossed a bit of metal at him. “Well, I am not wrong, am I?”

Filips sighed. “No, you are not.”

 

( I. )

 

Valeriy Zima kept to himself as he navigated the streets of the Northern District. His cousin, Anton Pavlov, walked beside him with a basket full of honeyed nut bread.

The streets were teeming with fellow schoolmates, and the distant ring of the bell kept Valeriy moving as quickly as possible. He was going to move as far away as he could from the stench of St. Pavel Academy, and he would succeed in doing so.

“Valeriy,” Anton said, a small slice of bread held lightly in his hand. “Hey, do you want any?”

Valeriy took the bread warily before biting into it. “Why must we go to school?” he asked, wondering what kind of rampage Anton would go on at the question.

 _A come-to-Christ speech is in order_ , Valeriy thought dryly.

“Because we receive an education which will, in time, get us a job worth something,” Anton explained before sending Valeriy a suspicious look. “You're not thinking about dropping out, are you?”

“I’m not,” Valeriy said before he had to dodge a gaggle of schoolgirls heading in the direction opposite of him. “Just annoyed with having to go for six days a week, ten hours a day.”

“You have to go through the bad to get to the good,” Anton said. “I thought you had more drive than that, Valeriy. Come, we have to make a stop at the docks today.”

Valeriy didn't question his cousin's motivations for heading to the docks. Instead, he followed and continued to wear down his small slice of honeyed nut bread.

 

+++

 

The Balt River was lively at that time of year, pushing water over the shore with power and grace, but the docks were livelier. Shipping boats were being unloaded by the dozen, and the scent of sea on them made Valeriy wonder to what lengths the boats have gone in order to arrive in the Republic of Petrova.

“Follow me,” Anton said before approaching a small, tinny looking truck with a tarp thrown over its bed. “Don't become surprised by anything, either. Some nuns in Spain wanted us to take them.”

“Who’s them and why Spain?”

Anton sighed and motioned to the truck. The driver gave him a thumbs up and began to depart.

“Their names are Filips Ozolinsh and Modest Matveev,” Anton said before following a path similar to the one the truck took. “They're around our age, except that one is around two years older than the other.”

Valeriy rubbed at his face and let his hands drop. “So you mean to tell me that there are some fifteen and seventeen years olds running around?” he asked without blinking. “Because I am not taking care of two working age people from Spain. Do they even speak the language?”

“No, they don't speak Russian,” Anton said, earning a tired sigh from Valeriy. “But they do have names like ours, so they should fit in just fine.”

Valeriy paused and squinted. “Why do they have names like ours if they were raised in Spain?”

“Their parents come from here, but sent them to Spain. Don't look at me like that,  because that's all they told me.”

Valeriy opened and closed his mouth in stunned silence, almost managing to say “that's insane and stupid and you're making it up,” before Anton stopped and nodded over to the truck. Valeriy shut his mouth quickly and looked over. It had stopped in a shady part of the docks, and no one seemed to pay it any mind.

“Alright, let's have a good first impression, yeah?”

Valeriy gave a dejected “sure”  before he began to wander towards the tarped truck. The driver got out, checked around, and ushered both of the boys out from below the tarp. 

The grime, dirt, and blood on both of them made Valeriy flinch back by reflex, and the sight of Anton’s surprised expression left him almost breathless. They all stood awkwardly in a shady part of the docks with their eyes cast anywhere other than each other.

“ _No hablo ruso,_ ” the bloody one said before he flushed and attempted to wipe some of the muck from his clothes. “ _Discúlpe._ ”

Valeriy looked over to Anton, who seemed nervous. They were probably spouting something accusatory, or asking for a bath. Valeriy shifted uncomfortably.

“ _¿Cómo está usted?_ ” Anton asked, his voice sounding wary and cracked.

The second boy, the one who didn't speak at the beginning, smiled brightly and attempted to wipe the mud from his arms and legs. “ _Bien, gracias, ¿y tú?_ ”

The bloody boy elbowed the muddy one and hissed something. The muddy one meekly smiled before facing Valeriy and Anton once more.

“ _Discúlpe_ ,” he said, the word sounding familiar to Valeriy. “ _Bien, gracias, ¿y usted?_ ”

Anton motioned with his hands in a so-so gesture before motioning for the two to come closer. They did so, and their facial features became clearer in the light of the afternoon.

The muddy boy looked like Anton with his curly hair and bright brown eyes. He had the same tanned skin, the same smiling mouth, and the same curved nose. They looked like brothers in a way.

 _Wonder how he would react to that_ , Valeriy thought before being pulled back to the appearances of the two dirtied Spaniards.

The bloody boy looked like no one Valeriy had seen before in his life. His pale skin seemed sallow, and his black eyes barely reflected any of the sunlight drifting his way. Valeriy couldn't be bothered with figuring out his ashen hair, so he focused on other things. He had a hard press to his eyebrows, long fingers, bony wrists, an eternal frown. Valeriy could go on forever.

“ _Encantado,_ ” Anton said before turning and starting towards a thin crevice of the docks.

Valeriy watched as the two boys exchanged confused expressions before following. Anton paused at a crevice and stood aside with an air of patience. Of course, they all couldn't go in at once, so Anton led Valeriy through first. He managed to help the bloodied and muddy boy through before Anton followed. 

Each of them were looking at the Inner District of Petrova. Pearly white government buildings and churches littered the roads, and the distant St. Papel University loomed quietly.

 _Great, another school to be close to_ , Valeriy thought, more annoyed at his failures to flee the educational system's final product (school) than his inability to forget the sound of the school bell.

“Here,” Anton held out his basket of honeyed nut bread to the Spaniards. “ _¡Bienvenido!_ ”

Both Spaniards took their own slice. “ _Le agradezco toda su ayuda,_ ” they said in slight unison before looking around.

“ _¿Dónde estamos?_ ” the muddy boy asked, watching people pass with their satchels and kits.

Anton paused and pointed around. “Inner District,” he said in the Russian language Valeriy was familiar with. “ _Distrito Interior._ ”

They both nodded and looked around a bit more before Anton began to move. Valeriy made sure that the two young men followed, and attempted to chat with them using general motions and faces. At one point, they could communicate well enough, but that was only when they were referencing the people on the streets.

“ _¿Ya llegamos?_ ” the bloody boy asked, his expression somewhat lighter.

“No,” Anton replied, sighing as they waited for the traffic to pass.

“You sound tired, Anton,” Valeriy said, laughing. “Where did you even learn Spanish, anyways?”

Anton hummed briefly before shrugging. “We have a class on it. I don't know if it's the same Spanish as the Spaniards have, but I think it's been working fine.”

Both of the aforementioned Spaniards look up in question before dipping their head back down. They knew that word well enough, it seemed. Valeriy didn't say it again, confirmation or not.

“Which one is Ozolinsh and which one is Matveev?” Valeriy asked, watching as their heads perked up again. “You didn't exactly tell me what they looked like.”

“I have their documents in my pack–or whatever stuff the nuns could scrounge up before they were brought over nine borders on the back of a tarped vehicle.”

Anton reaches into his leather satchel and pulls two messily put together folders. Photos, papers, and notebooks poke out from each. A Bible almost falls out of one, but Valeriy is quick to keep it from sliding out.

“Oh,” the muddy one breathes from in front of him, having watched the exchange happen right over his head. “ _¡Mirar eso!_ ”

The bloody one's gaze snaps up afterwards, and it is immediately drawn to the Bible. He pauses, looks from Valeriy to the Bible, and slips it from the folder. Valeriy doesn't speak as Anton continues to lead, but both of the Spaniards are pour over the Bible in starts and bursts. Occasionally, passionate laughter rings out.

The loom of smoke from the Industrial District drew closer, and Valeriy felt his stomach tighten. He hadn't thought that they would go anywhere near the Industrial District, but then again, Anton knew more than he did about the situation. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if Anton singlehandedly gained the support the Industrial District with only a few words.

“Hey,” Anton said, shaking Valeriy from his thoughts. “Are you finished with that?”

“Yes,” Valeriy said, feeling too troubled to even open it up. “Why are we going to the Industrial District in the clothes of the rich?”

“We're only wearing button ups and slacks,” Anton reminded. “Whether our shirts are washed to the point of pearly white or not, I know someone that would gladly take our friends in. They just so happen to live in the Industrial District, which is fine. Don't back out on this.”

“Even though I never planned to be in this to start with?”

Anton nodded without adding another word, and it was only then that Valeriy felt what it was like to be left in the dark. As the smoke grew closer, the skies grew grayer and the air grew thicker. The sun began to grow dimmer as they ventured further into the heart of Petrova's industry, and Valeriy almost ventured to ask if they could turn around and forget it.

 _This_ , Valeriy thought, is _not where I've wanted to be in a million years._


	2. Chapter 2

Filips ignored the toils of the workers echoing from the factory doors. Sitting on the corner of a street was a print shop, and the young man who looked a lot like Modest–Anton–motioned for them to follow him to it.

“We're going to go inside of there,” Filips said, closing his Bible and shoving it into Modest’s arms. “You take good care of that.”

“Of course,” Modest replied before the guide held open the front door. “There's not much else to do with this, is there?”

“We both know that you don't want to give it to the Russians.”

Modest winced and clutched it quietly. Filips knew that he hit home, but didn't mention it. Anton ushered them inside of the print shop at once, and the warmth radiating from the heaters made Filips feel as if he were floating.

“God,” Filips said. “This is nice, so very nice.”

“It is,” Anton agreed in Spanish before entering behind them along with the tall man named Valeriy. “Come, now. I need to ask someone to house you two for a while.”

Filips sent Modest a thoughtful look before following. Valeriy, who was behind them, travelled along in silence.

 

( II. )

 

The shop was filled to its peak with workers as Yaroslava Sokolov toiled away at a table filled with ink. Her brother, Aleksey Fedorov, mumbled along to the words of the day's issue.

“Yaroslava,” called the familiar voice of Anton from some corner of the shop. “Come here for a moment, it's the situation.”

Yaroslava shot up and quickly put her desk into some semblance of order before rushing towards where she heard Anton. She hadn't expected anyone to arrive this quickly–especially from a place far away, like Spain.

“Yes, I’m here,” Yaroslava said before she gulped down the warm air. “Are–are those the two young men you were talking about? The ones from the nuns in Spain?”

Anton nodded. “We got them from the docks today. They don't know a bit of Russian or English. At least I don't  think they know English. Neither has been able to speak Russian so far.”

Yaroslava looked the Spaniards up and down. One had the appearance of a sickly boy, while the other looked suspiciously like Anton. Of course, their clothing betrayed any sense of modesty they might have retained. She moved her eyes away from the blood on one of their overalls.

 _What have these kids gone through? wondered_  Yaroslava, ignoring the lurch of her stomach.

Yaroslava held out her hands. “I’ll need their documents. They have to be registered as citizens at some point.”

Anton quietly opened his satchel and handed Yaroslava their documents. “They've got very few details written on their general documents, but their birth certificates are in there along with a few photos and other things.”

Yaroslava clicked her tongue. “The government might have them as citizens if they have their birth certificate, huh. Alright, Anton. You good?”

Anton nodded and glanced over to Valeriy. Yaroslava's gaze wandered with his, and they both found themselves watching the two Spaniards teaching (or attempting to teach) Valeriy how to read.

Valeriy’s syllables came out rough and didn't flow like they should have, and his trademark drawl seemed to pitch the words into some kind of oblivion between Russian and Spanish. Yaroslava winced and glanced about, her co-workers ignoring the scene for their own work.

“At least be knows how to roll his R’s,” Anton commented idly before turning back towards the door. “Will you take good care of those two, Yaroslava?”

“I will,” Yaroslava said before she smiled and nodded towards Valeriy. “Go on, you probably have some homework to do, no? Oh–is that honeyed nut bread?”

Anton snorted before he waved Valeriy over. “I don't think our guests liked it very much, go be honest. Come on, Valeriy. We need to get home before our parents start to wonder where we've gotten off to."

Valeriy nodded and reluctantly stood. Before Anton took a step towards the door, he seemed to rethink something. He quietly slid the treat from his arm and handed it over to Yaroslava.

"A treat from me to you for keeping them. Thank you."

Yaroslava smiled before Anton and Valeriy left. Yaroslava, without a single doubt in her mind, turned quickly to the Spaniards and spread her arms wide, a grin on her face.

“Welcome,” Yaroslava said, pausing in dejection once she realized that they couldn't understand her. “Sorry, hold on. I have something to do for this, I promise.”

Yaroslava motioned for them to follow her over to her working desk. By then, Aleksey had stopped his reading of the newspaper article and was staring at her with a gaze intense enough to burn through brick and mortar.

“You let them stay with us in a one room apartment?” Aleksey began, ignoring the honeyed nut bread she harbored in a basket on her arm. “Yaroslava, who in their right mind–”

Yaroslava hushed him and shoved a piece of honeyed nut bread into his mouth. “Listen, they have nowhere else to go, and we both know that if Anton or Valeriy were caught housing them, they would be in huge trouble. We do them a favor because we are their friends–because we are  loyal. Just this one  thing, Aleksey. Just this one.”

Aleksey frowned, but didn't say anything more.

“Now,” Yaroslava said, smiling at the Spaniards and their arrival. “ _Nombre_.”

Yaroslava laid out a piece clean, partially messy piece of paper. Modest and Filips looked at each other with uncertainty before their faces lit up.

“Oh _,_ ” the bloody boy said, quickly writing the name 'Filips Ozolinsh’ onto the paper. “Modest.”

The muddy boy–Modest–picked up the pen from Filips and wrote the words 'Modest Matveev’ in smooth, separated leters. He set the pen down and looked at Yaroslava curiously.

“Modest,” Yaroslava said, pointing to the muddy boy. She quickly turned to point to the bloody one. “Filips.”

They both nodded. Yaroslava, feeling pleased with herself, quickly put up all of her supplies and gathered her coat and purse early. Aleksey didn't put up much of a protest outside of a “you're going to get fired for doing that one day” and a huff.

“I’m off,” she called out to the slight chagrin of her fellow workers. “Alex, make sure to lock up when you leave.”

The worker named Alex nodded meekly before returning to his work. Aleksey sighed and motioned for Modest and Filips to follow him, and Yaroslava followed, too. They left the print shop for the streets of the Industrial District.

“We're going home, Aleksey,” Yaroslava reminded as soon as they left the warmth of the print shop. “Not to an alley so that you can beat our guests up.”

Aleksey opened his mouth in anger, but quickly closed it and started off towards the Eastern Border of Petrova. It resided comfortably in the Industrial District, and it held the majority of the housing that the working class rented and lived in. Apartment blocks were common, and outright homes were rare. Yaroslava didn't believe that mansions could even exist on any part of the Industrial District. The crowded buildings offered no room for it.

Yaroslava stretched out and watched as a spurt of flame came from the tops of one factory. This would be a long walk back, maybe. It was nowhere close to time for workers to leave, but traffic from shipping trucks and tarped trucks would make travelling harder.

 _Too late to turn around_ , thought Yaroslava. _I just have to go for it._

 

+++

 

Yaroslava presented the inside of the small shack, which was like it had been earlier that morning: clothes put on the chair so that she remembered to take them to the local washwoman at some point, the change she kept placed neatly in a mason jar on the shelf sitting over the gas stove, and the dining room table in a disarray from her attempt to get the taxes figured out.

“Welcome,” Yaroslava said, extending her arms and motioning Modest and Filips inside. “Make yourselves at home.”

Aleksey snorted before Yaroslava came inside herself and closed the front door. Warm waves were coming from the gas stove, and Yaroslava felt glad that she had remembered to keep it on during the latter half of October.

“Aleksey, show them to their bedroom,” Yaroslava said, heading towards the kitchen. “We're going to be sleeping on the couch unless they want to share one, singular bunk.”

Aleksey sent Yaroslava a wild look. “They get our bed, too?”

“Of course,” Yaroslava replied, setting the honeyed nut bread down inside the fridge. “Aleksey, they are our guests. We offer what we can and take the second best.”

Aleksey groaned and rubbed at his face with his hands. “Come,” he said, motioning for Modest and Filips to follow.

Once the three of them departed and Aleksey began attempting to ask them the required question, Yaroslava took a seat and sorted out her tax papers. Afterwards, she stood and attempted to recall what she would cook for dinner.

“I hope Aleksey's good with another day of bread,” Yaroslava whispered, sounding dejected as she began to get together what she would need to make dough. “I could make something like mini-loaves. Something to take to work as a snack…”

“Yaroslava,” Aleksey said a short moment after Yaroslava began kneading out the dough. “They want the top bunk. They looked kind of nervous, actually. Oh, and that Filips kid.”

“What about him?” Yaroslava asked without looking up. “Do you have an even bigger problem with him, now?”

Aleksey shook his head. “It's not that. He’s learning Russian quickly. He understood me when I asked which bunk. I don't think he knows how to speak it, though.”

It was then that Yaroslava stopped kneading. “I guess that he’s simply smart,” Yaroslava said. “Give the man a break.”

“Yaroslava, I’ve read the documents you took home in your bag. Filips is sixteen–he should have trouble with learning a new language at that age.”

“He’s still young,” Yaroslava said. “And I’m not saying that because I’m twenty-two.”

Aleksey frowned before Modest returned to the living room, ruined overalls and boots held tenatively in hand. Yaroslava glanced at Aleksey and nodded her head at Modest.

“Well, take his clothes,” Yaroslava said. “Don't just stare at him like he's gone insane. We still have to give our own clothes to the washwoman, so it should be fine.”

Aleksey quietly took the clothes and placed them atop of the clothes already on the chair. Aleksey pointed there in his own attempt at reinforcing their location before sighing and watching Modest walk back to the bedroom with his thanks hanging in the air between them.

“Not even a word passed–Aleksey, be kind to them! What are you doing?”

Yaroslava watched as Aleksey dipped his head down in thought. She quickly returned her attention to kneading the bread, and kept an ear open in case Aleksey had more to say, which he did.

“I’m trying to communicate with people I don't know and don't trust when they–one of them–doesn’t speak our language or know who we are,” Aleksey said before lifting his head. “They are both unknown to both of us. How can you trust them?”

“They were sent for a reason, Aleksey,” Yaroslava pressed the bread hard into the wood of the cutting board. “They are peaceful. Do not provoke them in any form.”

Aleksey frowned before nodding. Yaroslava returned to kneading the bread as Aleksey brought out cans of soup.

“We do have chicken soup” Yaroslava mumbled before rolling the bread into some sort of ring. “I was going to save it for next week…”

“I’ll buy some more with whatever crowns I can get before next week,” Aleksey said, grabbing their cheap can opener and beginning the long process of opening the can. “Might ask around for a less rusty can opener.”

“Most people use knives,” Yaroslava said, much to Aleksey's obvious chagrin. “Maybe I should teach you how to open cans that way.”

“No thank you,” Aleksey said, quiet but sure. “I’ve got it.”

Yaroslava toiled in silence with very little on her mind outside of fixing the dough into ten equal pieces. She could have spoken to Aleksey before dinner was finished, but she would rather have waited in favor of the silence. It wasn't often silent in the apartment block, and she would like treasure it for as long as she could.

“Aleksey, go get the oven ready,” Yaroslava rolled up her sleeves. “We don't have time to waste tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

Filips poked at the warm chicken sitting in steaming broth. Of course, he had gotten a little more honeyed nut bread out of curiosity, but he wasn't feeling as hungry as he would have liked. Modest was constantly stealing food from his plate.

Modest made sure to show his like of his favorite foods by taking a napkin and a pen and drawing hearts with arrows pointing to his favorites. 

“Filips,” Modest whispered, eyes staring at his abundance of chicken and broth. “Eat up, because I think we're going to be working tomorrow.”

“At what job?”

Filips watched as Modest paused. “Eat up anyways,” he said after a second. “You’ll need it.”

 

( III. )

 

Three years after that successful evening, Yaroslava quickly folded Filips’s clothes and set them beside a small suitcase. “Come along, now,” Yaroslava said, motioning for Filips to come over. “Now, are you ready for University?”

“I’ve been once before,” Filips said, his fingers searching for the other strap to his suspenders. “I’ll be fine, Yaroslava.”

Yaroslava laughed, loud and boisterous, before she turned to face Aleksey, who was standing quietly in the corner. “You're going to be an underclassman to Filips, Aleksey. Don't cause any trouble.”

“I won't,” Aleksey said, his own miniscule amount of belongings held in the space of a small box, a suitcase, and a tin of chocolate brownies Yaroslava had made as a goodbye treat. “I doubt I’d have time to do anything, anyways.”

“Says you to that degree in Engineering you're looking towards,” Yaroslava said before spinning around and quickly stuffing Filips's clothes into his suitcase. “There we go, now I want you two to make me proud, okay?”

Yaroslava watched as Filips and Aleksey nodded, their eyes bright in the midst of a clouded future. “You two come over every once in awhile–there’s a monorail from the college to the edge of the Industrial District.”

Aleksey snorted. “You’ll expect us to tell you about our first day over dinner, won't you?”

“It's a one year tradition, Aleksey. I plan to keep it going.”

Modest stepped into the living room quickly, still scented with oil and soot from his work. He quickly sent a fierce glance towards Filips, who had managed to finish putting on his suspenders and worn tweed jacket (that Yaroslava had brought him for Christmas the year previous, much to Aleksey's chagrin), and sighed.

“You're leaving already?” Modest quickly cut a path to Filips. “I thought I would have enough time to get you something–the first day. I’ll get you something.”

Filips rose his eyebrows. “You don't have to.”

“I will anyways,” Modest said with a wave of his arm. “Yaroslava, is his stuff ready?”

Yaroslava quickly handed Filips a small envelope and a grouping of serious looking folders. Instead of explaining them, she nodded and held out Filips's suitcase in bony fingers. 

“Take care, please,” she said, her face similar to Modest's in its miniscule hint of disquiet. She wasn't satisfied, but she wasn't going to complain. “Come back to me in one piece, without holes. You too, Aleksey.”

“We won't,” Aleksey and Filips said at the same time, and Yaroslava felt her heart stutter. She couldn't keep Modest under her wing for much longer, either. “You take care of yourself, too.”

 

“I’ll try,” Yaroslava said in time with Modest. “I’ll try…”

 

+++

 

_ Section A; end.  _


	4. Chapter 4

Yaroslava toiled over the basin as she washed clothes. The newest innovations to hit Petrova were so expensive that the upper class had trouble buying them in bulk. The two golden notes per machine would take a lifetime of work for Yaroslava to gain, and so she gave up on the idea all together. 

“It would be nice if we had a washwoman,” Yaroslava said, dunking the clothes into the warmed water. “Matveev, do you know of anyone in school who would do this for us?”

Modest, who had been sitting on one of the soot-stained window sills of the small apartment block, shook his head. “No one really talks about washing clothes in school, Yaroslava.”

Yaroslava rolled her eyes before bringing a dress shirt up and wringing it out. “I’d suppose not, huh. Have you decided what you would be getting Filips?”

“He has a liking of Petrova’s sweet shops,” Modest confessed, and Yaroslava couldn't help but to glance back at him. “He always gets some of the chewier candies, so maybe I’ll get some gum.”

“Taffy is a good one, too,” Yaroslava said before pausing. “No, no. That's a delicacy here, actually. I’m not sure if we could get away with buying any kind of taffy.”

“That's fine,” Modest said. “Filips doesn't really like taffy. Anton gave some to him out of kindness, but he complained about it sticking to his teeth.”

Yaroslava laughed, full and boisterous, before she dipped the dress shirt back into the soapy water of the basin. “Sounds a little like Filips, huh? He’s never one to complain, but it's always so funny when he does.”

“How so?”

Yaroslava shook her head and began scrubbing. “You just never expect his complaints to be about what they are about.”

It was Modest's turn to laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. He’s very practical in some of his complaints.”

“Yeah,” Yaroslava said. “He is, isn't he…”

 

( IV. )

 

The short walk over to the Inner District was thick with silence. Somewhere along the way, Filips had bought a small tin of mint chocolate for something to nibble on. He hadn't opened it, however.

“So,” Aleksey began before pausing. “How was school last year, anyways?”

“It's wasn't as tough as I thought it would be,” Filips said. “The tests are hard until you begin to listen and write.”

“Only you know how to really write in Russian, don't you?”

Filips nodded and rubbed at an arm. “Modest is learning quickly enough, don't worry.”

Aleksey nodded, and they both quickly lapsed back into silence. What else could there be to ask in such a situation? Filips wasn't one to gossip, and Aleksey knew well enough that Filips didn't require a conversation to carry on in order to feel contempt. He simply wasn't a social soul.

“Hello,” Aleksey muttered to a man passing by, earning a stiff nod in return. He was going to be absolutely thrilled with the prospect of University.

 

+++

 

The campus of the University was broad and paved over with enough concrete that Aleksey wanted to turn back. Even the Inner District, which was one of the more technologically advanced districts, didn't have as much cement and road as this one.

“It looks…” Aleksey's words ran off as he began to think of something that could describe this cement mass of land. “New.”

Filips laughed and shook his head. “Come on, let's get you to Alexander Hall so you can put all of your stuff down.”

“That’d be great,” Aleksey said, following Filips as he began to walk down the road and towards a large billboard. “Do we turn past the billboard?”

“Partially,” Filips said. “Alexander Hall is straight forwards from it, and then you take a left as soon as you see a path in front of you.”

“And you found this shortcut how?”

“Being late.”

Aleksey let out an amused huff of breath before trailing Filips past the billboard. Everything dissolved into bits of grass and greenery before they were met with something akin to a park. 

“This is the Square,” Filips said, motioning around as they walked through it. “Most of the foreigners who come here for study call it a 'Quad’, but I don't see why.”

Aleksey observed the few students standing around. Most of them were in light coats, but the rest happened to be working on the benches and the gardens in overalls (and one in coveralls, much to Aleksey's curiosity). 

“Can we work on campus anywhere?”

Filips nodded before waving politely to a passing student. “There are shops scattered around campus, and there are jobs to do that the janitors need help with.”

“Does that explain the coveralls back there?” Aleksey motioned back towards the Square, which they were almost out of. 

“Yes, it does.”

The walk continued, and it was relatively silent until Filips guided him to the steps in front of Alexander Hall. It's towering frame, abundance of windows, and somewhat German feel made Aleksey's throat dry up. 

“Come on,” Filips said. “Let's go inside.”

Aleksey nodded and followed Filips, only passing ahead when the door was held open for him. Soon enough, he is able to relish the warm air fanning past him from somewhere. The receptionist at a desk perks up.

“Hello,” she says in an accent that is more-so English than whatever Russian the Petrovians had adopted. “It's good to see you again, Filips. Are you related to this new boy in any way?”

“He was my housemate in the Industrial District,” Filips explained. “I’ll introduce you two formally once we put his stuff up.”

The receptionist paused before she offered a short nod and a smile. Filips, without another word uttered, quietly led him over to the stairs and began his upwards climb. Aleksey, who had become interested, huffed. 

“Who was she?” he asked, adjusting the boxes in his arms. “Why are we meeting formally after I put my stuff up?”

Filips laughed and pushed open a door that that had a golden plaque on it. Aleksey knew the number read three, and so he assumed that Filips had the right floor. 

“It's simply polite,” Filips said. “You don't have to come, of course.”

Aleksey offered another huff as his final answer, and Filips shook his head, mumbling under his breath in the language Aleksey remembered to be Spanish. The hallway they were traversing was simple, and soon enough, Filips paused in front of the room Aleksey figured to be his.

“This is it,” Filips said, turning the door handle and pushing it open. “Go on, head inside.”

Aleksey obeyed, and quickly entered. Instead of looking around the small room, he quickly brushed his hands on his pants and walked back into the hallway. His stuff could be unpacked later. 

“Oh?” Filips said, confused. “Are you not going to look around?”

Aleksey knew that he would have time after dinner to look around his room and grow familiar with it, but instead he felt dread. He wasn't comfortable with calling such a thing  _ his _ .

“No,” Aleksey waved his hand. “I’d rather do it later. Let's go meet the receptionist so I can get it over with.”

“I’m surprised you trust her,” Filips said. “She doesn't exactly speak Russian without her English showing through.”

“Some of your Spanish comes out when the syllables get harsher,” Aleksey mentioned, navigating himself back to the staircase. “You two don't speak the same, though…”

Filips hummed before placing his hands into his pockets. “Of course we don't,” he said, his voice dim with thought. “However, you can understand us, yes?”

“Yeah,” Aleksey mumbled. “I can hear you perfectly fine.”

They exited the stairwell in quiet, and soon, they managed to greet the receptionist. Her name was Lilia Sokolovsky. Aleksey refrained from mentioning his sister's last name in question. 

“Good to meet you,” Aleksey said after pleasantries had been passed between them by none other than Filips. “You don't sound like you come from Petrova.”

“I do not,” Lilia said before leaning on her desk. “I come from Western Europe–my parents worked over there for a really long time. Decided to come back to their place of origin to do some studying before I head back over to get a job.”

Aleksey hummed before pausing. “What was it like over there with all of the British and Dutch and… Irish?” 

Lilia laughed and straightened with pride. “Quaint, most of the time. The homes I saw in Berlin during my mother’s travels were absolutely gorgeous, and the innovations in Britain were astounding. Oh, I think I have some photos, you should drop by sometime.”

Filips nodded before smiling. “I’ll take him off to the dining hall,” he said before pausing. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

“Yes,” Lilia said, offering a light smile. “Eat well, you two. Curfew is at ten.”

“Alright,” Filips said on the behalf of a babling Aleksey. 

“Wh–Filips,” Aleksey yelped as he was gently guided outside. “What kind of goodbye was that?”

“You don't understand,” Filips said. “Dinner is a big deal here, namely when the most common meal in Petrova is the Worker's Lunch. It's packed by the time the clock hits seven, and dinner starts at six-thirty. We are better early than late.”

“It's only around five,” Aleksey said, frowning. “We will get there early. Exceedingly early, Filips.”

Filips turned to him with an all knowing look. He looked threatening, but Aleksey knew that part wasn't intentional. The sheer knowledge shining in his eyes was the intentional part.

 

“The line usually starts at four.”

**Author's Note:**

> My Spanish is horrible, and it seems even worse because both Modest and Filips come from Spain, which is different. Spanish is a language from Hell, but it's still nowhere as bad as English.  
> I'm working on jotting down the translations to what Modest, Filips, and Anton say, so I only need a day to get it done, checked, and added onto this.


End file.
